


Guardians of a Rare Thing

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-30
Updated: 2006-06-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:23:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: "The first time, they're in buttfuck Nebraska, chasing some punk kid who thinks he's a warlock." First in the Down to the End series.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Guardians of a Rare Thing**  
SPN Sam/Dean  
2,322 words  
  
**Notes:** Thanks to [ ](http://anatsuno.livejournal.com/profile)[**anatsuno**](http://anatsuno.livejournal.com/) for saying " _Write_ that, goddamn you," when I babbled ideas at her as well as general hand-holding and suggestions, and to [ ](http://ethrosdemon.livejournal.com/profile)[**ethrosdemon**](http://ethrosdemon.livejournal.com/), [ ](http://maygra.livejournal.com/profile)[**maygra**](http://maygra.livejournal.com/) and [ ](http://thisdistance.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://thisdistance.livejournal.com/)**thisdistance** for thorough, speedy betas.   
  
  
  
The first time, they're in buttfuck Nebraska, chasing some punk kid who thinks he's a warlock. They dispatch his truly pathetic attempt at an army of the undead without breaking a sweat, but after the final lost, fumbling zombie has been felled, the asshole kid comes after them with a 12-gauge shotgun. Dean sees him first, and he drops on instinct, shouting Sam's name, but Sam, absorbed in dousing the pile of rotting bodies with gas, is slow to react, and Dean hears the shot and Sam's cry both at once, sees Sam crumple to the ground in slow motion.  
  
A lifetime of training doesn't fail Dean; he reacts, precise and deadly, even as his chest erupts with cold, sick fear. He takes aim as Sam falls and puts a bullet in the kid's head without even blinking. It's not the first time he's killed a human, not even the first time he's killed one younger than Sammy, but it's the first time he feels no remorse, not then and not ever afterward.   
  
What happens next is a confused jumble in his mind. He doesn't think it's possible more than fifteen seconds pass between Sam getting shot and Dean kneeling at his side, but it stretches to hours in his memory, hours in which he doesn't know if his brother is alive or dead. When he reaches Sammy, sees Sam's pale, wan face, sees the chunk missing from his arm where the shell clipped him, he drops to his knees beside him and says, "Sam, Sammy," in a voice he barely recognizes. Dean pulls his brother into his arms and then, somehow, they're kissing like it's the money shot in every bad romantic movie ever made.  
  
Sam kisses like he's drowning and Dean's oxygen, and Dean, still surging with adrenaline and heady relief, is nearly as hungry. Sam wraps his uninjured arm around Dean, holding him tight, and they kiss until they're gasping. The taste of his brother's mouth -- hot, bitter from the coffee despite how much sugar Sam laces it with -- mingles with the sharp tang of blood and the heavy scent of rotten flesh, and Dean is shocked, horrified and elated at once.   
  
They don't talk about it, after. When they finally break apart, Sam looks up at him like he's got all the answers in the world, like he used to look at him _before_ \-- before Stanford, before Jessica, before his picture-perfect fratboy life that didn't have room for freaks like Dean. But there are more pressing concerns: tying off Sam's arm, manhandling him into the Impala, breaking every traffic law ever written getting him to the emergency room. And then the police and the questions, which turns out to be a more painless process than Dean could have ever imagined. The discovery of a pile of unearthed corpses convinces the local authorities they had a Jeffrey Dahmer clone ready to graduate to live victims, and they decline to press charges and thank Dean for ridding the town of a monster instead.  
  
Sam's patched up and out of the hospital in matter of hours. Dean spends a night or two in lock up before they decide he's a hero. They get the hell out of dodge the minute he's released, and Dean doesn't do regrets, but he sometimes wishes he'd stuck around long enough to spit on the kid's grave. Sam smugly teases him for weeks after -- _Couldn't do it without me, could you, Dean? You know I'm the real brains behind the operation_ \-- but he never mentions the kiss, and Dean's not sure he even remembers.  
  
***  
  
The second time, it's three a.m. in a sleazy motel in Boise, and they're playing cards, drinking Jack Daniels straight from the bottle and snickering at the rhythmic thumping and choked moans coming from the room next to theirs. It's been weeks since they've had a real hunt, and they're both going stir-crazy. They drove seven hundred miles to goddamn _Idaho_ to investigate a poltergeist that turned out to be a jilted boyfriend. They have no new leads, and just to make things perfect, the second anniversary of Jessica's death just passed and Sam's been a whiny little bitch for days.  
  
Dean buys a fifth out of sheer desperation -- he doesn't think he can get through another night of Sam moping without it. But Sam is more than happy to help him drink it, and he perks up after a few swigs and actually deigns to play poker with Dean. Sammy never could hold his liquor, and he's plastered before the bottle's half gone, losing hand after hand, betting increasingly ridiculous amounts of money and trash-talking all the while. When the free porn audio starts up, he's down $13,000. By the time it ends, he's down $35,000 and Dean is threatening to sell his body on the street to pay off his debt.  
  
Sam blithely points out that Dean's the pretty boy with the penchant for leather, and when Dean's eyes narrow, he helpfully adds that excessive flirting is often a sign of overcompensation. There are _limits_ , and when Sam, eyes gleaming, says, "The Todd," Dean growls, jumps him and wrestles him to the bed. It's been years since Dean had an automatic advantage -- damn Sammy and his freakish growth spurts -- but Sam is too drunk and laughing too hard to offer any real resistance at first, and Dean pins him easily.   
  
"You wanna say that again, Sammy?" he says, pitching his voice as big-brother menacing as he knows how. But Sam just laughs harder, says, "O. Ver. Comp. En. Say. Ting," emphasizing each syllable, and then, drunk or not, flips Dean onto his back and perches triumphantly on top of him.  
  
Dean struggles, spitting curses. Sam keeps laughing, effortlessly trapping Dean, and Dean reflects for the millionth time on the unfairness of a universe that gave his baby brother four inches and twenty pounds on him. And then it all changes, quick as a heartbeat, a single breath. Sam shifts for better leverage, their bodies align and their hips snug together. The smile slides off Sam's face like it never existed, his eyes go dark and deep, and he says, " _Dean_ ," tone all smoke and sin. Dean can feel Sam's erection pressing against his hip, feel his own cock starting to respond.  
  
Shock courses through his body, shame and heat and horror combined, and his mind flicks back to the clearing in Nebraska, the violent crack of the shotgun, the sickly sweet smell of decay in the air. He thinks, _Finally_ , without quite knowing what he means.   
  
But he's Dean Winchester, and he never met a moment he couldn't ruin, and he says, "I wish I knew how to quit you," before he knows he's planning to speak. Sam's eyes widen and clear and then he's laughing like it's the funniest fucking thing he's ever heard. He rolls off and grabs the bottle, takes a long pull and pushes it into Dean's hands before Dean can quite process what's happened. Dean wonders, as the whiskey burns his throat, if the tightness in his chest is relief or regret.  
  
Dad texts them coordinates the next day, and they head to Texas on the trail of a vampire lothario cutting swathes through Dallas' wealthy widow population.  
  
Sam mutters, "Overcompensating," under his breath the next time Dean turns on the charm for a hot blonde waitress, and Dean smacks him upside the head. They both stick to beer for months.  
  
***  
  
The third time, they're in a little college town in Oregon, sleeping the sleep of the righteous after a 16-hour exorcism. With a campus full of luscious coeds a block away, Dean can't fathom why a demon would choose an 85-year-old retiree, but he chalks it up to the inscrutability of evil and crawls between the scratchy motel sheets with the vague satisfaction of another job completed.  
  
He wakes to Sam's voice, high and panicked, calling his name, damn near kills himself on the razor-sharp bedframe trying to get to his brother in the dark. He shakes Sam awake, murmuring comforting nonsense -- "Just a dream, Sammy, just a dream, nothing here but us” -- as if dreams can't kill in their world, as if Sam's nightmares never come true. Sam quiets anyway, trusting as a child. He catches Dean's arm when Dean tries to rise, breathes, "Stay," in a tired, hopeful voice, and Dean, never able to deny Sam anything, crawls into his bed without a word.  
  
They lie side by side in silence for long minutes, breathing in unison, and then Sam pushes himself against Dean, settles his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean says, "Are we having a Hallmark moment, Sammy?" but he's already wrapping his arms about Sam, and when Sam says, "Fuck you," his breath ghosts across Dean's throat.  
  
Hours later, sunlight bleeding through the cheap curtains, Dean quietly pulls himself from Sam's sleeping grasp. He jerks off in the shower, and very carefully does not think of too-knowing hazel eyes or wide, strong hands.  
  
***  
  
The fourth time, they're in Mississippi and Dean's bloody and half passed out from a hellhound attack. Sam finds him a few feet from the broken body -- of course Dean killed the thing, injured or not, he's a professional, goddammit -- swearing he's going to kill the next kid who tries a stunt from _Buffy_.   
  
He's managed to forget, through the haze of blood and pain, that he promised Sam he'd wait for him, that nothing pisses Sam off more than Dean hunting alone. So it takes him by surprise when Sam hits him and kisses him and hits him again. He thinks, reasonably, that the least Sam could do now is kiss him again, but Sam has progressed to yelling, "never again" and "son of a bitch" and "fucking kill you myself" and a few other things Dean doesn't catch, and he lets himself slide under, secure in the knowledge that Sammy is there.  
  
***  
  
The fifth time is the first time.   
  
Another anonymous motel room after another routine hunt, another nameless creature, banal in its malevolence. Dean's cleaning his gun, only half listening to Sam's litany of possible new targets, when Sam says, "Fucking _enough_ ," and moves before Dean can register the words, plucking the gun from Dean's hands, yanking him to his feet and slamming him against the wall.   
  
Dean tenses, ready for a fight, but then Sam's body is against his and Sam's tongue is in his mouth and there's nothing else, nothing but Sam and here and now.  
  
They don't talk. They undress each other, fumbling and sloppy, slow in their reluctance to abandon each other's mouths, and they're naked by the time Sam maneuvers them to the bed. When Sam stretches out on top of him, Dean thinks he could come just from his brother's skin pressed against his, at the same time knowing Sam wouldn't let him hear the end of it if he lived to be a hundred.   
  
And then Sam says, "Fuck me."  
  
Dean tenses, reality smashing in, and pulls back sharply, thinking _wrong_ and _sick_ and _no_ even as his cock swells further at words.   
  
Sam catches his wrist, says, "Dean," his voice low and rough.  
  
Dean says, "No, Sammy, no," and tries to pull his arm away, but Sam only tightens his grip. "This isn't," Dean says, and then, "We can't," his voice broken and pleading in his own ears. His cock aches and his body thrums with want, but there's an ugly little word flitting through his mind and this is _Sam_. Sam, his baby brother; Sam, who he saved and whose life he's responsible for as long as his heart is still beating; Sam, who he loves with a single-minded clarity so fierce it sometimes scares him.  
  
Sam says, "Please," and it's barely a whisper, but it echoes in Dean's ears.   
  
Sam, who he can never deny anything, and when Sam says his name again, more need and lust and hope and love packed into one syllable than should be humanly possible, he breaks. Lets himself stop thinking, lets Sam pull him back to the bed, loses himself in his brother's body.   
  
When Sam says, "Please," again, it's short and sharp as a gunshot, a demand instead of a plea, and when he pulls Dean's hand between his legs, Dean bites his own lip bloody trying not to groan aloud.  
  
Hand lotion for lube and a few tense moments sliding his fingers into Sam's body, trying desperately not to come as Sam squirms and moans, and then he's sinking deep inside, inside _Sam_ , where it's hot and sweet and wet and perfect.   
  
Sam says his name once more when he comes, says it like a prayer, and Dean follows helplessly, as overcome by his brother's voice as by the contractions of Sam's ass around his cock. He sags against Sam as his body trembles with aftershocks, and when he slips out of him, Sam _whimpers_ , a little broken moan that goes straight to Dean's cock.   
  
Sam pulls Dean tightly back against him, shifts to fit their bodies more closely together. Dean says, "You're such a goddamn girl, Sammy." It's a weak attempt, but it's hard to think with Sam against him and his bones soft and fluid. Sam just snorts, and Dean wraps loose arms around him, listens to his breathing go soft and rhythmic.  
  
The room smells like sex and gun oil and Sam, and Dean thinks, _Home_.  
  
***  
  
The sixth time, Sam says, "C'mere," sleepily and Dean finds his brother's mouth in the dark, lets his body say all the things he can't find words for.  
  
***  
  
The seventh time, lost in soft cries and sweet, slick heat, Dean stops counting.  
 

http://esorlehcar.livejournal.com/346885.html#cutid1


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